Honeydew
by slash latte
Summary: If anyone understands her now, it's him, because for all intents and purposes, they are the same person. Fiona/Riley friendship, hints at Riley/Zane and Fiona/Declan.


_a/n: First of all, this hints, though fairly vaguely, at incest. If that's not your cup of tea, don't read, but I don't expect stupid comments about it.  
Second, the seemingly random title comes from the definition of "Honeydew Syndrome," an absolutely amazing webcomic by autobrig, which you should go check out sometime. The definition is "__the occurrence of a mutual understanding between two people who, due to their different natures, should not understand each other under normal circumstances." It popped into my head while brainstorming a title, because that's exactly what I wanted to portray with this fic. Hopefully I did a good job._

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Fiona stares at him from across the room, the boy she had dated to keep other, more unpleasant boys away, who had dated her because he was running away from himself. It's been months, but she can tell he hasn't changed, and she thinks he must see the same in her. His hair is longer, he's tanner, there is more muscle rippling under the thin fabric of his tank top as shifts in his chair. Manly as ever, but no different, not really.

It's odd, unexpected, but she wants to talk to him. She blames curiosity, if anything, but it's probably her desperation to be anything but alone.

When the bell rings, she hovers until he is about to leave the room, talking to some of the teammates he swears are his friends. The way she sees it, friends accept you, everything about you. She has no friends. _You don't, either, _she thinks, but as she approaches him, all she says is, "Hi."

He is surprised that she's talking to him, that much is written all over his face. This is the girl he broke up with by calling her a bitch – and their relationship hadn't even been real to begin with. But she is a girl. She's pretty, and she is not his gender, so he walks with her. It's safe for him.

He isn't her brother, so she supposes it's safe for her, too.

"Do you want to cut class?" she asks, and the only response he gives her is a short nod. It could be obvious that she needs someone, or it could be that he needs someone, too. Whatever the reason, it's more than enough, and she leads him out of the room, down the crowded halls, out the front doors of the school. No one notices, or maybe no one cares. The should've-been quarterback and his weird, aloof, snobby ex-girlfriend. The latter seems more likely.

They walk through the parking lot and away from the building in the awkward silence of two people who know they have used and been used by each other. It is not a comfortable silence, but she doesn't know how to break it. Finally, she says, "Do they know?" She had missed out on a lot of Degrassi drama while attending Vanderbilt Prep, but she knows this isn't included long before he shakes his head. Small gestures like that are all she expects from the boy at this point.

"What about you?" she asks, doubting that a different approach will change the answer much. Riley had been far from accepting himself the last time she had spoken to him. "Do you know?"

He won't even nod or shake his head this time. All he does is scuff the toe of his shoe against the ground and avoid eye contact. She takes this to mean that he doesn't, or maybe that he doesn't want to know.

"Two Rileys," he tells her, and she quirks a shaped eyebrow at him, as if to say that such an odd, out of the blue statement requires an explanation.

"There are two Rileys," he begins, his eyes still on the ground. "They don't mix, can't mix, don't mix." The way he says it, in rapid succession, makes it pretty obvious that he isn't sure which is more accurate.

He rambles then, a little monologue about the differences between the football Riley and the _other _Riley. The one who spends all his free time at the gym and the one who prefers to run off to a dark movie theater or some offbeat restaurant where no one will see him with another boy. The one who's super cool, and popular, and can have any girl he wants, and the one who doesn't want girls at all.

She thinks it would've been easier to say 'the straight Riley and the gay Riley', or better yet, 'the Riley who's a complete and utter lie and the Riley who's real', but she doesn't say that to him. There's honest, tangible pain in his voice, particularly when he mentions Zane, and, god, she has enough of her own.

"Why are you making yourself choose? You could try being both."

He finally looks at her, and it's a look that suggests she might be insane. She's pretty damn familiar with that look by now.

"They _don't mix_," he repeats, and before she has a chance to tell him that none of his teammates could possibly make as big a deal out of this as he is, he asks, "What's wrong with you?"

The same silence from before falls as she tries to think. She owes him an answer, even wants to give him one, but she doesn't know how. She doesn't know what's wrong with her. Eventually, she settles for the theory that had begun forming maybe ten minutes ago.

"There… are two Fionas, too." It sounds like déjà vu, and she hopes he isn't mad at her for borrowing his idea.

She's only been thinking about it for a short time, but it makes so much _sense_, and before she knows it, she's characterized the first Fiona. "She's the one you dated, the one that everybody knows. Famous parents, loads of money, confidence… She shuts people out because she's above them."

"The one with the incurable case of bitch," Riley throws in, and it sounds much different than it had the first time.

"Yeah," she agrees, the faintest hint of a smile on her face. It's only there for a moment, because with that out of the way, there's only the _other _Fiona left. She feels bad, because when he used the crude terminology on himself, she had thought it was stupid. It's really the only way that makes sense to describe it.

There are a thousand points she could make about this one. She knows this Fiona better than anything, and no one else knows her at all. They've caught glimpses of her, because sometimes she's hard to control – impossible – but they don't know her.

"She's terrified of being alone," she starts, and even though that will come to seem like the least of her problems, it isn't. Not when she's all alone in her condo, where she leaves the TV on at all times so the silence won't gnaw at her so much. She tells him that she ran away from her abusive boyfriend because that's all she ever does – run from her problems. She goes to therapy because she's in love with the only person who is, or was, always there for her, and it's not even doing anything. Not that she wants it to. And she still pays the therapist to come over, because it's a warm body, a smiling face, someone who gives a damn about her.

"Feel free to go back to school and come out to everyone now," she says lightly, teasingly.

"What, because gay has nothing on incest?" He snorts, and then it hits them that they've just poured their hearts out to one another, and here they are making silly little jokes about it. They both start laughing, loud enough that people around them shoot them strange, annoyed looks. They probably look like kids slacking off, skipping because they don't care. _If fucking only._

"I think we could have been pretty decent together, in another life," she says once her giggles subdue into silence, and it takes her a minute to realize that she has no idea if she's talking about Riley or Declan.

"If we were different genders," he agrees, and maybe it occurs to him that it's not clear who he means, either. "If only."

And isn't that the truth. It would be so easy to be with the boy standing in front of her, hands shoved into the pockets of the letterman jacket that is an obvious tribute to the Riley he wishes he was. Nobody would think anything of it if they dated. No one would be offended to see the jock walking down the hall, hand-in-hand with the pretty rich girl. They wouldn't have to sneak into the movie theater after the lights had gone out. They wouldn't have to look over their shoulders before stealing a kiss. They wouldn't have to _lie_.

But they have been down that road before, and the lies that had been necessary had completely surpassed those that had been avoided. She remembers forcing him off of her, hating the feel of his hands on her, because he wasn't, will never be, Declan. And she knows she didn't make it easy for him, either. She had constantly insinuated that he wouldn't have tried so hard to get with her if he wasn't gay. She realizes now how true that was, feels horrible for being such a bitch, wishes she had _understood_.

She wishes she had been understood, too. Of all the people in this stupid public school, Riley should have been the one to do that. She doesn't blame him for it now, of course. If anyone understands her now, it's him, because for all intents and purposes, they are the same person. Or, the same two people.

They wish they could fix themselves, be who they are expected to be, the boy and the girl who are utterly normal and who won't be harassed because they only love who they are supposed to love. And they know they never can, because some things are beyond fixing, probably never were fixable to begin with.

They know the world will never accept them as they are, but at least, she thinks, they accept each other. It isn't much, but it is better than nothing.

She sits down on the edge of the sidewalk, and after tugging gently on his sleeve, he does the same. She rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes. In her head, the shoulder is much less muscular, and it belongs to someone whose hair isn't quite so curly. She's not a mind reader, so she can't be sure, but she thinks that in his mind, he is probably resting his cheek against black hair, has his arm around a body significantly less feminine.

It doesn't bother her one bit. She wishes she could tell him that she takes back what she said all those months ago, telling him to never talk to her again, or at least to thank him, but she's afraid it will break the illusion, so she remains silent. It's a comfortable silence this time, of two people who not only understand that they have used each other, but who understand _why._

It has changed everything, and it has changed nothing at all, but it is more than either of them had before, and that is enough.

-fin


End file.
